


Reminiscence

by Iritvea



Category: Dangan Ronpa
Genre: Childhood, F/M, Family, Memories, bad-end AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 12:12:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7891822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iritvea/pseuds/Iritvea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reupload. In the wake of the events of the 5th trial, Monokuma introduces a new motive, with possibly unexpected results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reminiscence

**Author's Note:**

> You'll notice some inconsistencies with canon here because this was originally written for Togafukaweek before DRAE came out. I'm still pretty proud of it in that it I remember it being a lot of hard work.

Byakuya Togami sat in his usual chair in the corner of the dining hall. The five remaining students sat before him in in a silence so heavy, the only noise that could be heard to break it was the hum of the lights above them. Since the fifth trial only a few hours ago, he’d noticed that his “fellow students,” or “friends” as they so desperately wanted him to call them, instead of clustering together as they had, sat scattered at a great distance from one-another, each staring into space with more-or-less the same blank expression on their faces. He supposed they were still contemplating the verdict.

It seemed that minus Kyoko, their already fragile semblance of unity had worn especially thin. Outward displays of affection and comradery had dwindled, yet at the same time, there seemed to be an even greater need amongst them for gestures of interpersonal cohesion and understanding, which the others already exhibited frequently, but even more so since the last trial.  

Aoi stood up. “Does anyone want breakfast?” she inquired, forcibly cheery. “I’m going to try to make something.”

Yasuhiro slammed his palm down on the table. “That sounds great, Asahina-chi!” he proclaimed, sounding pitifully overzealous for the situation. “I could really go for some tonkatsu right now!”

Byakuya turned to look out the window, giving no answer. Touko, seated not far from him, lowered her head and muttered something that ended in a “please.”

Makoto smiled weakly, “That sounds great, Asahina-san.”

The announcement tones chimed, interrupting them. Instinctively, they all turned to face the announcement screen. However, instead of the figure of Monokuma, there was static.

Byakuya rose from his seat and approached the monitor, to be followed by Makoto, Touko, and then the others.

The static prevailed for a moment, then footage of what was unmistakably a much younger Aoi faded into view. She was standing outside at a park, watching the camera with a look on her face that seemed almost apprehensive, not unlike the one that the present-day Aoi currently wore.

 “Mommy, can I hold the baby? Can I hold the baby, please?” young Aoi inquired, bouncing back and forth on her heels. Her voice came ringing through the speakers, clear as a bell.

A warm laugh came from behind the camera, “Well honey, if you want to hold the baby, then you have to sit still.”

Byakuya threw a quick glance at Aoi, who seemed possibly more puzzled than everyone else.

He returned his attention to the screen, where the younger Aoi seemed to be deciding, with crinkled nose, whether or not she really wanted to sit still and hold the baby, and ultimately opted to go play on a nearby playstructure.  

By now, Byakuya had lost patience.

“Monokuma!” he demanded, turning on the nearest security camera. “What is the meaning of this?”

At first there was nothing, then Monokuma’s voice came crackling over the loudspeakers, interrupting the audio feed from the monitor. “Attention, Attention, this is yer school principal! Some of you punks may have noticed that there are some family movies playing on the school monitor right now—well, I’m sure you couldn’t have missed them—I’m nothing if not a bear of efficiency, so now that there are only five of you, I’ve decided to do away with those tiresome school assemblies and present you with yer next motive right off the bat!”

There was a pause.

“H-Home movies?” Touko snorted incredulously.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Monokuma continued. “How could some simple videos possibly convince me, a bright and hopeful young student, to murder anyone?” There was a pause and then Monokuma’s laugh, “Upupupupu!” came echoing through the speakers. “But _memories_ are powerful things—and reliving them can awaken feelings of despair you never even knew you had!”

“That won’t work!” Makoto proclaimed, loudly. “We’ve come this far! The five of us will never fall into despair!”

As if in response to what Makoto had said –no- _most likely_ in response to what Makoto had said, the image of Aoi was abruptly replaced by the image of an even younger lavender-haired girl, sleepily snuggling into the arms of an older man with dark violet hair and bright purple eyes. Byakuya instantly recognized the infant as Kyoko, and was grappling with placing the man, when his attention was diverted to his right, where Makoto appeared to try and launch himself at the screen, only to be restrained by Aoi and Yasuhiro.

“Screw you!” Makoto erupted, Byakuya guessed at Monokuma. “Screw you!” He then dropped to his knees, his arms still supported by Aoi and Yasuhiro, with tears forming in his eyes.

Byakuya turned away from this display.

“The rule this time is simple,” Monokuma announced. “The videoscreens will shut off with the next discovery announcement! Until then, enjoy the rest of your communal life!”

With that, the loudspeakers were switched off, and the audio from Kyoko’s video faded back in.

For the next twenty-four hours, wherever there was a screen, they were subjected to an onslaught of footage which Byakuya found equal parts tedious and intriguing. On the one hand, he simply didn’t care for the nuances of Makoto’s babyhood, Aoi’s progression through different sports clubs, or the footage of tiny Sayaka Maizono singing her lungs out on some TV show. On the other hand, he was aware that, with all these images, he was getting glimpses into a world he would never experience for himself, and it left him, he supposed, with a feeling that was somewhat akin to staring into a parallel dimension. He also realized that, perhaps due to this disparity, none of the footage provoked in him the same kind of reaction as it did in the others.  

At first, the conversations had been about how the mastermind had obtained the footage—a discussion he was eager to take part in. Then, Aoi saw fit to talk ceaselessly about how “cute” each of her classmates were whenever footage of a toddler or infant would come up on the screen. Parents and siblings came into the picture, which inspired a series of conversations about family, and seemed to promote the sharing of stories. Byakuya noticed that Makoto would watch, placidly, the majority of the footage but would turn his back on the monitor when the image of Sayaka or Kyoko appeared. Aoi burst into tears at the sight of a young Sakura Oogami swinging a sledgehammer at a tire, and even Yasuhiro grew noticeably quieter when some garbled scraps of his childhood found their way onto the screen. Whenever footage of Byakuya happened to appear, the others would turn to him as though expecting some particular kind of reaction, which they did not receive. This phenomenon only occurred a few times before Byakuya took to sequestering himself, once again, in the library.

Byakuya sat alone at his usual table. The book he had last been reading lay open on the table near him, but he had since turned himself away from it to face the monitor feed.

Onscreen, two children, whom he had discerned to be younger versions of the deceased Mondo and his older brother, ran circles around a small living area. The former constantly emitted excited shouts as a small, furry blur wove in between them.

“It’s a puppy, Daiya! A puppy!”

Byakuya heard the main door to the library slide open, but did not turn to look at the entrance. Simply from the way the door opened, he could tell who it was. He listened as she cautiously entered, then retreated to the corner of the room. He had grown used to this routine. Occasionally, he noted, she would pick up a book and read on her own at a far table, but as he had recently experienced, it had become increasingly more difficult to focus on the text with the inconsistent audio from the flashback reel pouring into the room. He listened as she hesitated then, inconsistent with her usual behavior, slowly made her way his direction.

He continued watching the screen as her timid footsteps drew near. The grainy images he’d been observing began to fade out, to be replaced by a setting he knew very well.

She stopped a few feet short of where he sat.

On the screen, he saw himself as a young child, approximately a toddler, seated in a chair in the corner of a stark room with his violin in his arms. His younger counterpart dragged the bow across the strings, gazing down at sheet music on the stand in front of him. He played well enough, but not without a few mistakes that Byakuya could easily recognize. He endured the monotonous performance for a few minutes, but it quickly came to bore him. His attention drifted back to Touko, whom he was sure had to be standing only a few paces behind him.

He waited to see if she would make her presence known. When she did not, he addressed her, “Speak, Fukawa.”

She jumped, slightly, then took a noisy breath in and inquired, “Do you need anything, Byakuya-sama?”

He removed his gaze from the screen in order to find her in the corner of his eye. He could just make out her inward-curling posture from where he sat.

“No, Fukawa, I don’t.”

He waited for her response, which came as an “Oh.” He heard her back away a few steps, “Okay.”

He returned his attention to the video feed, idly rolling his shoulders back. He briefly commented to Touko, “Do not bother to retreat. As long as you’re here, have a seat where I can see you.”

There was stillness for a moment, in which he imagined her puzzling over what he had said, followed by a few scraping sounds. Then, one of the wooden chairs was placed in his left-side peripheral vision. Touko seated herself in it with the same posture she always exhibited. She took to staring back and forth at him and the screen, where his younger self paused to turn the sheet music before progressing onto another song.

After a few minutes of this, she spoke, voice dripping with airy adulation, “Small Byakuya-sama is a good musician.” She exhaled, noisily. “I suspect older Byakuya-sama is a gifted virtuoso as well?”

He bristled.

He turned abruptly to look at her. She sat in the chair, which was aimed at the screen, with her body angled towards him. A thread of a blush flooded her face.

“’Gifted’ is hardly the word,” he informed her with what was perhaps a forced tone of indifference, “To be an _accomplished_ violinist, as I am, requires self-discipline and thousands of hours of _practice_.”

She nodded, thoughtfully, then returned her focus to the screen, as he did.

“…and Byakuya-sama practiced since h-he was very young,” she noted.

He cleared his throat and slowly nodded, “I did.” He noticed she was staring at him again. “I had a strict practice regimen from the time I learned to read music. My mother saw to it that I would have uninterrupted practice for the appropriate time.” He smirked as he added, “Depending on which one it is, this tape could very well go on like this for any number of hours.”

He studied Touko, whose facial expression seemed a troubled mix of admiration and concern. She looked like she was going to say something for a moment, but instead closed her mouth.

He turned back towards the monitor and shrugged, “This tape should be in the private family archives, but since there’s little on it I care about, I’m suspending my efforts to investigate how it made it out of the vault.”

Touko nodded and chewed on her thumbnail. He averted his eyes from her habit. His younger self concluded a measure, and stopped, staring into space. Byakuya quickly grew frustrated, knowing that this wasn’t by any means the end of the piece, until he caught a closer glimpse of the haunting look on the child’s face. He tried to process its meaning, but it was gone as soon as it had come, quickly vanquished by a shake of the head as the young child righted himself and resumed playing.

He too, shook it off.  “As you see,” he told Touko, “I was taught strong dedication from an early age.”

He glanced at Touko, who nodded once, focusing with rapt attention on the screen. His younger self continued playing, drawing the bow gently across the strings. That was, until the audio began to break up, gratingly and the video feed to skip.

Byakuya grit his teeth at the shrill noise that filled the room. There was a blip of static and then applause rang through the speakers as the image of a brightly lit stage area filled the screen. On the stage that appeared, two figures sat in large armchairs angled out towards the studio audience.

An older man in a suit sat in the chair on the left, and on the right sat a young Touko, who appeared a small, gloomy speck sinking into the armchair, in contrast with the bright and cheerful set. Knowing what he did of broadcast protocol, Byakuya was able to pick out instantly that this Touko had likely been delivered to the studio every bit as filthy as she was today, perhaps even more so, and had been hastily cleaned up and made presentable by studio aides and makeup artisans. She answered the questions posed by the interviewer, but with an unmistakable glint of fear and loathing in her eye—the budding version of that which she exhibited presently when she looked at anyone else.

“Interesting,” he remarked. “This is the third time we’ve seen this particular interview.” He turned to her curiously, “Besides it and a couple of others, there doesn’t seem to be much footage of you.”

“There wouldn’t be,” she said. When he fixed her with an inquisitive and pointed stare, she elaborated, curling in on herself and pressing her index fingers together as she looked away, “S-Someone as ugly as me doesn’t d-deserve to be photographed, l-let alone videotaped.”

He was going to say something, but she surprised him.

“Byakuya-sama?”

“Mmm?”

“If I m-may ask, what-- what are your parents like?” He took a breath to answer, but before he could say anything, she promptly recoiled and added, “I-If I’m being too bold in asking Byakuya-sama, please c-correct me! I will gladly take any t-type of correction to halt my rotten a-assumptions about…”

“I will answer if you are quiet,” He cut in.

She did quiet, lowering her hands from where they had been near her face down into her lap and placing them on her knees. She waited, wide-eyed, for him to speak.

He cleared his throat, “My father is the head of the Togami Conglomerate. I last saw him one month before I was to enter Hope’s Peak Academy. My mother is an accomplished musician as well, and a working professional who attracted the attention of my father through her ability to manage teams of other top-flight professionals. They are both in peak physical condition, and if you look at either of them you should be able to parse out exactly half of my genetic makeup.”

She blinked.

“Now it’s your turn,” he said.

She started, “Huh?”

“I expect that as long as I’ve described my parents there will be some give-and-take in this scenario and I will hear you answer the same about yours.”

She pursed her lips together and stared at the ground, “Of course…”

He sat back and waited.

“I-I- live with my f-father and my mothers.” She struggled, “One is my biological mother, and the other one…”

He waited several seconds for her to continue, but she never did conclude the statement. He glanced back at the footage of the young Touko squirming in her seat, then back to the present-day Touko who sat doing pretty much the same thing. Her gaze drifted to the far wall, and a sour expression clouded her face. She appeared deep in thought, though her eyes still flitted around the space, as if searching for something that might attack her.

“I am sorry, Byakuya-sama…”

Something struck him, and he elected to be a bit more diplomatic than usual.

“I understand if you do not wish to continue this discussion,” he said after a moment of consideration. “In contrast to the others, it seems you and I have little to talk about when it comes to the subject of ‘family.’”

She raised her head, an expression of profound surprise on her face. Her features softened as she looked at him. There was almost a smile on her lips, and something akin to gratitude in her eyes.

He deflected it, possibly, by ordering, “If you’re going to stay here, then move your chair closer.”

She did so.

They both turned away to face the monitor. If not for the clock on the wall, or their ability to count the number of clips that rolled through, or Makoto coming to get them for dinner, they might have lost track of the time they spent together.

 


End file.
